


this is the way the world ends

by Laora



Category: Gundam 00
Genre: Gen, Mind the warnings, but there's what some might call body horror as well, there is nothing happy in this fic I promise you that, they mostly spring from the fridge horror of Allelujah's capture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lockon Stratos and Allelujah Haptism are both captured after Fallen Angels, and only one of them makes it out alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. of the body;

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Gundam 00 week](http://g00week.tumblr.com/) happening over on Tumblr, for the prompt 'Gundam Meisters.'
> 
> This fic started, like half of my 00 stuff, via a text conversation with sapphireswimming...and slowly devolved from there. Spoilers through 2x3.
> 
> This is a two-shot; I struggled with the second half of this fic for hours before realizing that it's really a completely different story arc, physically and thematically: the imprisonment, and then the aftermath. The second half still needs some polishing but will hopefully be up by the end of the week (maybe for day 7 of 00 week?), so stay tuned! :)

He’s been a man waiting to die since he was ten years old and drifting in space—and now, he thinks, he’s reached his final reckoning.

Allelujah’s head is pounding and his vision is growing dark along the edges, and Hallelujah smiles from his reflection as he slowly fades away. There’s something wrong with that, he thinks, because his other self would never be so quiet, never so rational—

Why would he leave him here when they’re utterly alone in space, just like so many years ago—why would he not take this prime opportunity to seize control?

“I’ll be going first.” And some corner of his mind realizes that he can’t grasp what he means, just yet, but the larger majority is consumed by the pain and the nausea and the fact that Marie is here— _right here._ She’s recovering her comrade and ensuring his safety and if that doesn’t describe Marie perfectly, then he doesn’t know what does. When they were in the Institute together, she always asked how he was, whether he was all right, even though she was surely in a worse situation than he ever could be—

He thought he killed her so many months ago during that attack on the facility but she is here—she is _here_ —and his hands grasp for the throttles of this destroyed Gundam, grasp for a comm link, grasp for _something_ that will allow him to talk to her. But Kyrios is nothing more than wreckage, now; too many red lights are flashing from his dashboard, and the screen is cracked and distorted, so that if he didn’t know Marie so well, he never would have recognized her at all.

His Gundam is all but scrap metal, not even worthy of salvaging for parts, but _he needs to get to Marie_ because it has been so, so long but _she is here_ and—

_“Gundam pilot,”_ a harsh, female voice emanates suddenly from the comm, and Allelujah flinches at the volume of it as his too-empty head pounds. (Where has Hallelujah gone; surely, he wouldn’t leave him alone when they both are so clearly about to die?) _“You are in AEU custody. Any act of resistance will be read as aggression, and will be treated accordingly. We have been authorized to use deadly force.”_

If they want him dead then why are they talking—why do these mobile suits in various states of disrepair, flying steadily toward him, not just shoot Kyrios out of the sky? If they want information, surely they know that he would never give it to them; if they want the Gundam—

Kyrios may be destroyed, but its black box is not—the GN drive, no longer connected to any system that works, simply idles behind the cockpit, and Allelujah realizes suddenly that this must not fall into enemy hands. Tieria’s sharp comments— _if you lose your solar reactor, if you give up anything to the enemy, you deserve to die a thousand fiery deaths!—_ and Ian’s instructions from so many years ago flood through his aching head, and he knows what he need to do to save Celestial Being’s secrets.

He reaches with shaking fingers for the emergency release latch, beneath the controls—out of the way and hard to reach, and it strains his flaming ribs and his creaking neck as his hand finally finds the lever. He jerk it with all the strength left within him, and then there is an awful screeching sound that rattles his head worse than the comms. But the solar reactor is gone, speeding off into space and shielded by its strongest GN field, bulleting for the Ptolemy.

(The Ptolemy, or whatever homing beacon they have left, because there was a worryingly large explosion in his peripherals during the battle that he didn’t have time to investigate.)

(And why has Miss Sumeragi not been calling out desperate new battle plans; why has he not heard from Setsuna or Tieria, calling for backup in their own impossible fights?)

(How is he to know that he is not the last man standing?)

He sees Marie jerk, through his noisy screens and his blurring eyes, and he watches her gaze follow the reactor as it soars off into space. Her comrade, too, makes as if to pursue in his destroyed suit, but there must be some order from the military brass, because even the AEU forces approaching them do not break formation to chase after Celestial Being’s greatest secret.

They want him alive, and Allelujah’s stomach plummets as he sits here, alone and dying and defenseless, and desperately unsure of what they want.

.

.

His mind is full of Marie Marie _Marie,_ at the moment he loses consciousness and again at the moment he gains it.

He is lying down, and he assumes that he must be in the med bay of the Ptolemy, because he is alive and surely the world powers would have killed him should he have been captured? Perhaps Setsuna or Tieria recovered his suit, once he lost consciousness—he must have—

But he’s looking up at his surroundings, now, and it’s darker even than night cycle on their mothership, and something is restraining his arms and covering his face and—

There are bandages wrapped roughly around his head but they’re nothing like Doctor Moreno’s careful hand—they’re too tight and too loose all at once, and his head throbs at the pressure even as blood drips into his eyes. He opens his eyes wider, waits for his pupils to dilate, and realizes that he is somewhere utterly unfamiliar.

There’s a door with a dimly lit window inset, and he sees two silhouettes on the other side. They’re standing rigid, from what he can see—standing cold and silent and ready to attack, and—

They’re guards.

Allelujah feels his breathing increase even as his mind categorizes, takes stock of his physical and mental state and tries to discern what exactly is going on. There’s something wrapping his arms tightly to his aching chest, and there’s a—a _muzzle_ upon his face and in his mouth that keeps him from crying out, even should he wish to.

There’s blood on his head and in his eyes, and he can’t hope to move to wipe it away; he’s in what seems to be a regeneration cell, and the glass is too low for him to sit up, and he feels his breathing pick up, his heart rate increase, as he realizes just how trapped and cornered he is.

_They want me alive,_ is his last thought before his mind slips under again.

.

.

He expects that it’s Hallelujah taking control, pushing his weaker—lesser—consciousness down and away and devising some animalistic plan to break them free of these bonds and this containment and whatever facility the military has seen fit to shove them into.

But when he wakes again, it’s as if he’s only been sleeping, and his muscles don’t even ache to indicate a failed attempt at releasing himself from confinement.

Hallelujah didn’t take that prime opportunity to seize control—he didn’t overwhelm Allelujah in order to do what he deems his other self _too weak_ to accomplish—and he asks why; he asks that primal creature in the back of his head why he’s abandoned him now, when he could use his help the most—why he has left Allelujah to fend for himself in this situation that could so very easily lead to their death—

But there is no response ringing through his mind and into his ears, no sensation of _push_ that has, always, for as long as he can remember, been there, waiting for a moment of weakness so he could seize control.

Hallelujah is not there, and he struggles with this concept even as the door slams open, the bright artificial lights flood the room, and he has to squint to make out four figures stepping quickly toward him.

They’re not Marie or Setsuna or Tieria or anyone he recognizes, and he tries to sit up quickly to defend himself before his throbbing head slams into the overhead glass of the regenerative cell. His vision swims and he attempts to focus on these people—enemies, for sure—but everything is growing black around the edges and his muscles fail him, forcing him back down to the unforgiving metal of the cell as these people speak words beyond his comprehension.

His last thought is of Marie before he loses consciousness once again.

.

.

The next he knows, he is no longer in a regenerative cell; he’s sitting in a straight-backed chair, and his head throbs, and his wrists are strained to their limits within this awful straightjacket, and his ankles are shackled to the floor.

The room is dark, and Allelujah struggles to see anything beyond the confines of darkness, but—there is nothing, nothing in this room but this chair and these restraints and himself, straining against impossibly strong binds in a desperate attempt to break free.

They’ve—he’s been captured, certainly, by the military. But it’s not an impossible situation. Surely, though he was overpowered by Marie and her comrades, Setsuna and Tieria—incredible pilots, the both of them—must have survived; the Ptolemy must be intact. They’re licking their wounds, repairing the Gundams, and then they’ll find out where he’s being held and come to rescue him.

(Two Gundam Meisters left, at best—and Allelujah ignores the words Hallelujah should be saying, that that battle was an impossibility, and his comrades—no, his _friends_ —are more than likely dead.)

_A Gundam Meister is never alone;_ he knows this to be true; Setsuna, despite his rough exterior, surely would not be so calloused as to leave him to the mercy of the military. And Tieria—well, he’s been softening around the edges in the last few months, but at the very least, he wouldn’t risk Allelujah divulging valuable information to their enemies.

(Not that he would. Not ever. Marie is the single most important part of his life, but Celestial Being and its ideals are a close second.)

He’s been captured due to his weakness and his ineptitude but surely he will be rescued—he’ll endure Tieria’s unconcealed contempt and Feldt’s tears and Lichty’s awkward hugs because it’ll mean that he’s safe once again, among comrades and friends who accept him in a way almost no one has in his entire life. _Marie—_ her name repeats itself in his mind like a prayer, because that was her and he thanks God that he didn’t inadvertently kill her in battle, that she looked relatively unharmed though her mobile suit was torn to pieces, and—

_Marie is all right, and the others will rescue him in due time._ He just has to endure whatever the military has planned for him in the coming weeks; Ian will need time to repair Virtue and Exia—he’s the best engineer there is, but even he can’t work miracles—and then everything will be as it should be.

(The emptiness in the back of his mind echoes tauntingly, worse even than Hallelujah’s jabs, and he has to convince himself it will be all right.)

.

.

They feed him, he thinks, once a day (for the passing of time is difficult to guess)—a nameless guard opens the door, flanked by four others, armed with pistols and rifles and electric batons, and brings in food and a glass of water to keep him alive.

The food is tasteless but nourishing, and the nanoparticles in his body do the rest to ensure his muscles do not atrophy against the inactivity he’s forced to endure. They only loosen the gag long enough to shove the food in his mouth; if he manages to voice a question, they do not bother to answer; when he has eaten the last crumb, they roughly reapply the restraints and leave without a word.

The first time someone speaks a word to him, a high-ranking officer with silver hair is in his cell at least a month after the battle, looking him up and down with something like amusement on his face. “Hopefully you’ll cooperate more than the other one has,” he says lightly, flippantly, and though Allelujah has been doing his best to stay stoic and angry just like Tieria would expect of him, his façade falters, then. He—he means, they captured someone else? Tieria, he knows, went dark early on in the battle, and Setsuna surely never stood a chance against the mobile armor—what if—

He knows how this is supposed to work; he’s supposed to ask who else they’ve captured, demand to know what’s going on. But he isn’t stupid, and so he only schools his face as best he can, staring up at the officer blandly.

He laughs in Allelujah’s face, then, and leaves the cell without another word.

.

.

He knows he doesn’t have a good grasp on the passage of time, but he’s almost certain that, when the officer finally reappears in his cell, it has been several days since he last ate. His stomach is cramping, and he is lightheaded with dehydration; though he can survive without water and food for longer than most, his throat is absolutely parched, and he’s not sure that he’ll be able to say anything, even given the opportunity.

But the man behind the officer is carrying a tray of food and a bottle of water, and Allelujah’s eyes widen in relief as he realizes that this must be— _has_ to be—for him. “Good morning,” the officer says, gesturing with a broad smile to one of the guards to remove his muzzle. “This meal comes thanks to your friend Lockon Stratos.”

Allelujah’s gaze, which had been locked on the tray of food feet from him, jerks back up to the officer in horror. Surely, he misheard—or else they’re wrong, because Lockon—he’s—

“I assume you know him?” the officer asks, his smile turning a bit more smug. “We picked him up about a week before you—he’s in bad shape, of course, after that explosion, but we’ve been able to patch him up well enough. He bought you this meal with his codename—now, we’d be obliged if you would do the same.”

He’s lying—he _has_ to be lying—but how would they know Lockon’s codename, otherwise? Precious few people know the Meisters’ names or faces; even most of their contacts, those who fund and observe them, go through either the bridge crew or someone on Krung Thep. Their identities are top secret, and less than thirty people in the _world_ know the name _Lockon Stratos—_ so how—

The officer heaves a heavy sigh before gesturing another guard forward. The man holds a terminal in his hands, and Allelujah leans forward slightly without thought, his eyes wide as he waits to see what will appear on the screen.

It’s security camera footage—grainy at best, especially with the dim lighting of the room, but there are several people standing there, and one all but crumpled on the floor.

When he turns his face up to snarl at the officers, Allelujah recognizes him instantly—but Lockon, he was _dead_ , he was—

There is barely-decipherable audio to the recording, but Allelujah understands exactly what they’re saying even without it—Lockon shouts at them for a bit while the officer only stands impassively, and eventually he looks down to the floor. He must have said something, too quietly to make out—his codename—because the officer inclines his head, gesturing for the guards to follow him out.

But Lockon—he does not move from his position on the floor, does not even attempt to stand up, and he is not restrained as Allelujah is. And his eye—the patch is gone, now, but there is a horrifyingly dark area on his friend’s face, and Allelujah is sure he’s not getting the treatment he needs—

“Regrowing an eye is expensive, you know,” the officer says lightly, as the other man puts the terminal away. “It’s not worth our time when the prisoner is—well,” he laughs at some private joke, “perfectly functional, otherwise.”

Allelujah stares at him with wide eyes, trying desperately to school his features, but—but that’s _Lockon_ , hurting and alone somewhere else in this prison, and—

“Here’s how this is going to work,” the officer says, then, stepping forward, leaning down to stare at him, inches from Allelujah’s nose. “If you want your friend to continue living, you’ll tell us whatever we want to know. Information for food—a fair trade, right?”

Allelujah can only stare back, horror flooding his gut. He knows he doesn’t have a choice even before the man voices his question, but—how long can they possibly keep this up? Food—at the _very_ least—three times a week for Lockon, and only God knows how long they’re going to be kept here. And, after all, what can they tell the government that will not truly compromise any of their friends that might be left?

If they give up the rest of them to keep each other alive, then what’s the point, when the both of them are only going to rot in this prison, anyway?

But it’s—it’s _Lockon,_ the man they were sure was dead—and Allelujah feels a suffocating wave of guilt that they did not insist on combing the battlefield to find his body. Setsuna had said he was near the epicenter of the explosion—that he would have been vaporized, and that Exia had picked up no life signs. They had assumed— _assumed,_ and Allelujah’s stomach twists as he realizes how differently this could have gone—that Lockon was killed instantly, and because they did not go to search—

He owes this much to Lockon, at least, to keep him alive for as long as he can—until, hopefully, Celestial Being will come to save them. It’s too much to hope for the government to discontinue such barbaric practices—especially when it gets them results—and so he realizes that their only hope is to pray that they are rescued.

He says nothing to the officer, but he must have seen something shift behind Allelujah’s eyes, because he laughs and leans back, a bit. “You tell us what your codename is,” he says amiably, “and we’ll bring lunch down to Lockon right now.”

The name is a mockery on this man’s tongue, and Allelujah barely keeps himself from snarling at him. He hesitates only a moment before rasping “Allelujah Haptism” to the echoing room, and the man’s smile grows wider, gesturing for the man with the food and water to step forward.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Allelujah,” he says, standing up. “I am Colonel Aber Rindt.”

.

.

When Allelujah next sees video of Lockon, he has not moved from his position, propped up against the wall of his cell, unchecked fury on his face as he speaks with Rindt. “It’s a pity his neck was broken in the blast,” the colonel says flippantly, as Allelujah stays glued to the screen. The men are shifting Lockon like a sack of potatoes, now, slipping something onto the ground and against the wall beneath him before shoving him back down, scarcely making sure he stays upright. “All these wasted resources just to ensure he doesn’t get bedsores—but what can we do?” he shrugs. “Now, Lockon has so kindly told us the name of the man who piloted the big Gundam—if you could fill us in on your last pilot’s name, I’ll make sure he gets dinner tonight.”

Lockon— _his neck was broken,_ and suddenly, the way his hands lay uncomfortably on either side of his thighs, the way his legs are simply sprawled before him, makes far too much sense. Rage rises in him again at this, that they would leave Lockon so undignified when he is so vulnerable—

A broken neck is fixable—he _knows_ this—but the government does not want to waste the medical resources on either his spine or his eye, and as he looks up at the smug face of Colonel Rindt, above him, he doesn’t think he has hated anyone so much as he does now.

“Setsuna F. Seiei,” he spits out, and Rindt laughs at his tone—but he nods, and Allelujah is sure Lockon will eat tonight—if only because the government would not lose half their leverage, the source of half of their information.

The gag returns to his face, and Allelujah manages to keep his face stoic until the last guard locks the door behind him…but then he bows his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and does not even try to stop the tears from falling down his face.

.

.

He has a lot of time to think, nowadays.

The guards only come by every other day for information to feed Lockon—and only every second visit do they have food for himself. Lockon knows, then, that Allelujah does not need water so often as normal humans. It was important for the Meisters to know each others’ strengths, after all, and Allelujah knows both this and his enhanced reflexes were in his public files, but…

He sincerely hopes that the government does not realize exactly what this means—that he is an escaped test subject of the Super Human Institute, that he has (used to have) the ability to use quantum brainwaves.

Hallelujah’s absence in the back of his mind is still jarring, and Allelujah is still not used to it, even—he thinks—at least six months on from Fallen Angels. If he were still here, Hallelujah would be just as angry as he is—he would be furious that they eat barely twice a week, that they must swallow back the bile they try to vomit when the muzzle is applied and there is nowhere else for it to go. He would be furious that they were so compromised, though—Allelujah thinks—he would appreciate Lockon’s efforts to keep them alive…even though he is only interested in the personality he knows.

Even if all of them know it can never last.

They’ve gone through the crew’s codenames, and Lockon has given up his birth name as well— _Neil Dylandy,_ and Allelujah hopes sincerely that the brother he admitted was still alive will not pay for Lockon’s crimes. He has told them that he lived in Moscow before he was recruited, that he had no family—that Allelujah was the first name he remembered answering to. And he feeds them believable lies about Celestial Being, when he has run out of safe information about himself—that the four solar reactors they saw are the only ones in existence, that Celestial Being is a sprawling organization with limited contact between cells; that he knows nothing about anyone beyond those who were on their ship.

They buy it all, and Allelujah thanks God for that, at least…even though Lockon looks more haggard by the day, and it kills him that he can do nothing to help his friend but send him meals whenever the government offers them. He would tear apart this prison—the whole _world_ —if he could; he would strangle Colonel Rindt with his bare hands, given half a chance. And he is a super soldier, but he is strapped to this chair with the strongest material the world has to offer, and he has not once seen the outside of this cell.

He can do nothing but pray Lockon can hold on until they are rescued, though he knows the chances of that happening grow more slim by the day.

“Maybe if you hadn’t killed our commander and engineers, you’d have those answers,” Lockon snarls to Rindt, that afternoon, as Allelujah can only look on an hour later. They’re asking about their benefactors and about how the solar reactors operate, and Allelujah considers whether revealing Wang Liu Mei would be worth keeping Lockon alive for another few days. She’s rich beyond imagining, after all, and can surely shield herself from whatever the government might bring down upon her and Hong Long…

The only information he knows about the reactors’ operation is classified—more classified than even the Meisters’ identities—and Allelujah thinks he will not reveal that unless it was a choice between life and death for his friend. But Lockon is clearly deteriorating, anyway, and he is worried that no matter how many meals he sends him—if he does not somehow win Lockon medical attention for his clearly oozing eye and the broken neck that must cause him agony beyond belief…

Lockon is barely clinging to life—Allelujah can see this clearly—and it _kills_ him, that he cannot do anything to help. They are surely held on opposite sides of the prison, and anything he tries to say to him during interrogations would be edited out of the security footage.

Lockon needs support and needs help and _needs to get out of here,_ but Allelujah can do less than nothing to help him. His friend has always supported the rest of them in whatever way he could—for all these years, Allelujah was comfortable in the knowledge that he could go to Lockon for help with anything at all. But now he is barely alive, and they are both captured by men who wish them only harm. He needs it so badly, but Allelujah cannot return the favor—and he hates himself more and more each day, that Lockon very well may not make it out of this prison alive.

He watches as Lockon tells Rindt that Setsuna was once a member of the KPSA, and though it’s clearly not as interesting as they were hoping, Allelujah is allowed a meal all the same. “What do you have for us today, Allelujah?” Rindt asks, his head cocked a bit to the side as he watches him greedily drink the disgusting, blended food that has sustained him for over half a year.

He hates the way his name sounds on this man’s tongue; he hates that he has adopted use of it without permission, when it is all but holy, bestowed upon him by Marie as it was. Rindt uses the name like it’s any other, when it’s _not_ , and every time it passes his lips, Allelujah has to do his best not to bristle.

He can’t anger this man—he can’t make him change his mind, make him reconsider allowing Lockon these meals at all. He has to keep his friend alive, and—

And he is terrified that he is running out of unimportant facts to tell this damned government; he dreads the day that Rindt will stroll into his cell, flip on the lights to blind Allelujah for several moments while his eyes adjust, and he will have nothing to tell him—nothing to save Lockon’s life.

He tells him, today, that Sumeragi once worked for the AEU’s military—which he hopes will not allow them to hone in on her true identity, should she still be alive. Rindt seems pleased with the information, though, and tells Allelujah, as always, that Lockon will receive his reward within the hour.

He watches as Rindt and his guards leave the cell, flipping the lights off and locking him in total darkness, and hopes desperately that they will not run out of time.

.

.

Both he and Lockon are grasping at straws, and Allelujah knows that even if they started giving the government truly important secrets, neither of them will last much longer.

Lockon has been transferred to Med Bay more than once for sepsis, spread from an infection in the still open wound of his eye. They bring him back just alive enough to answer questions (and none of his stints in the regeneration pod ever leave Allelujah without food for too long so as to be dangerous), but he is clearly never fully recovered. His eye has not even properly scabbed over, and he can yet move nothing but his head, and Allelujah can see the rage growing on his face by the week, even through the grainy video he is allowed to watch.

Lockon is dying, and though Allelujah is willing to do anything in his power to reverse that, he’s not sure that’s going to be enough when neither of them have yet to even stand up since they arrived.

Lockon is dying, and Allelujah is being forced to watch, and he swears that if they ever get out of here alive, he will bring hell down upon the government’s heads for ever doing this to his friend.

Rindt comes into his cell in particularly high spirits, one day, followed by his typical guards as well as (Allelujah’s stomach flips) a man in a white lab coat. _He_ is fine; he has no reason to see a doctor; why would they—?

“Lockon gave us some very interesting information, just now,” Rindt says conversationally, and gestures to two of the guards. Allelujah knows how this works; one will show him the video, and the other will remove his gag for him to give more information in return. But while the first man does flip his terminal around for Allelujah to see, the second man does not move to remove the muzzle, and Allelujah glances to him in confusion as the first man starts the footage.

Lockon is yet propped up against the wall, the rage on his face tainted by fear as Rindt asks for more information. He’s run out of ideas, just as Allelujah has, and Allelujah can see this clearly on his friend’s face. But then Rindt speaks up—

“If you gave us any information on your friend Allelujah, we’d make it worth your while. He’s been…rather tight-lipped about his own history.”

Lockon hesitates, glancing to the security camera with his remaining eye, and Allelujah can see the hesitation and fear there before he swallows with difficulty. He breathes in, then (and breathing seems to have become more and more difficult for his friend, as the months have gone on), and says, very quietly, “From what I understand, he’s…augmented. It’s how he doesn’t need water as often as anyone else would.”

In the video, Rindt stands up straighter, considering Lockon with renewed interest. “Like a Super Soldier,” he says with relish, and Lockon’s scowl deepens though he says nothing in reply.

Allelujah blinks, trying not to let the fear show on his face as he looks up to Rindt and the doctor. “We appreciate his cooperation,” Rindt says, a nasty smile on his face. “If it’s any consolation, he’ll get food for a week, for that.”

Allelujah jerks, his eyes widening further as the second guard reaches out toward his neck, a syringe in hand—but he cannot move away, and there are only precious moments after the sharp prick into his skin before he loses consciousness.

.

.

Lockon no longer remembers what it feels like not to be in pain.

True to their word, the guards have brought him what must be two meals a day for almost a week, now—his stomach had cramped, at the start, not knowing what to do with so much nourishment after months of starvation, but it’s a revelation, not being hungry all the time.

If only he could move to get himself and Allelujah out of here.

He was so sure, as the Arms exploded beside him, that he was dying for a good cause—dying to avenge his parents and his sister. But then he had woken up in a regeneration cell, his eye on fire and the limbs he could not move feeling as if they were submerged in ice, and the pain has only grown marginally more bearable as the months have gone on.

He has no one to complain to and nothing he can do about it, though, and so he only bears it with fury and single-minded anger. He spends his time trying to figure out the new limits of his ruined body (his shoulders and elbows will move, shakily, but the pain it causes him negates any worth this might have); he spends his time trying to decide what to say to that bastard Rindt to give Allelujah his next meal. But he’s known for months that this couldn’t last.

He just hates that he was the first to break.

He had considered that they would do something with the knowledge that Allelujah was a super soldier, but he had held out hope that they would not make the connection—and anyhow, he knows they had to have suspected when he said he would not give his friend food every other day. No unaugmented human would survive five days without water, but Allelujah has for months, now—and Lockon has hoped that their luck would last longer than this.

The first time the guards bring in a video of Allelujah knocked out on a hospital bed, part of his head shaved and doctors around him prepping for surgery, he throws up all the food they just fed him—and they only laugh and leave him alone in the dark, not bothering to clean him up.

(He’s already been sitting in filth for months, and this pile of vomit shouldn’t make that much of a difference—but _they’re operating on his friend again,_ long after he escaped from the Institute he swore he’d never see again, and Lockon knows he will never forgive himself for this.)

He sleeps a lot, now—because it distracts him from his reality of a ruined, useless body and a friend undergoing _brain surgery_ somewhere else in this hell of a prison. In his dreams, he is alive and whole and free again—he spends time with his friends on the Ptolemy and his family in Ireland (his _whole_ family). Amy is there with her wide smiles and tight, tight hugs, and their parents worry over his state though he assures them that he is fine. And even—even _Lyle_ is there, not so reluctant as he always has been, and Neil never wants to wake from these dreams, because in comparison his life is nothing short of a nightmare—

He sleeps often but is woken every time the guards come in with food, every time they spoon feed him the disgusting mush they call nourishment, every time they shove a straw nearly down his throat to give him water. He tried biting their fingers, at the start, and managed to draw blood from a few—but he got knocked about the head plenty of times for it, and he realized quickly that such small acts of resistance were not worth it.

He is numb and on fire and submerged in ice all at once, and he is _dying_ ; he can feel it in his bones and his eye and his mangled neck. He does not _want_ to die, necessarily; he does not want to leave Allelujah alone and at the mercy of these monsters. But the guards have told him more than once that Celestial Being’s destruction was complete, after his capture. They have shown him footage of Setsuna and Tieria emerging from their wrecked Gundams and being shot to ribbons in moments; they have shown him footage of the Ptolemy exploding in a cloud of dust.

Their friends are dead, and though he wants to believe that the footage is doctored, they have not been rescued yet, and so—and so—

It has been almost a week of meals for no information at all, and Lockon can do nothing but sit against the wall and worry for his friend—wonder whether he has survived the surgeries they put him through—wonder whether he will survive them in the future.

His fourteenth meal comes with Rindt in tow, and he smiles nastily down at Lockon as he sucks the water down greedily. “Such a great outcome for so little information,” he says, almost idly, and Lockon spits on his shoes. Rindt’s face twists in distaste, but he continues as if it hadn’t happened—“Unfortunately, I think your usefulness has rather come to an end, Lockon Stratos.”

He clenches his jaw, at that—swallows, glances around, wondering which of the guards carries the gun that will kill him. “Oh, no, we’re not going to waste a bullet on you,” Rindt says, as if in surprise. “And Allelujah has not yet woken from his surgery—I’m afraid he won’t be able to send you any more food for _quite_ a while.”

They’re—they’re going to starve him to death. Lockon shouldn’t be surprised, in all honesty, but the thought of spending his final days in this pitch-black cell, waiting as his body fails him more than it already has, is nearly unbearable. “If you kill me, he’ll never say another word to you,” he challenges, even as he knows it will do nothing to save him.

Rindt crouches down on the filthy ground, then, and laughs in Lockon’s face. “A super soldier is just as valuable as a Gundam pilot,” he says smugly, leaning forward heavily, his knees digging into Lockon’s thighs in a way that sends fire shooting up his spine. “As I said, we have no more use for you.”

Lockon does not allow himself to show weakness; he does not allow himself to show this monster of a man his fear. He works up more precious hydration in his mouth, stares at Rindt’s smug face, and then spits directly into his right eye.

He swears, reeling back, and one of the guards is swift to hit him over the head with his baton. It’s worth it, though, to see the man lose his composure, even for these few seconds—and as Rindt stands, wiping at his face and stepping toward the door, Lockon calls after him, his voice hoarse—

“I’ll see you in Hell, you bastard!”

They ignore him, flipping the lights with a finality that sends dread coursing through Lockon’s gut, and slam the door heavily behind them.

Lockon stares at it for long moments after, but he never does see light again.

.

.

His head is on fire in a way he has not felt since he was a child.

This is worse than the headaches Marie’s quantum brainwaves once induced; this is worse than the headache he endured after that disastrous battle six months ago. He remembers his cell, and he remembers Rindt smiling smugly down at him—and he remembers—

He remembers a jab in his neck and then _nothing_ until now, but his head hurts in the way it always did in his childhood, and he knows what he has been condemned to even before he realizes where he is.

Lockon—he ran out of options, and Allelujah does not blame him for giving up another piece of information about him. After all—Lockon must have thought—a friend undergoing surgery must be better than a friend dead of dehydration, right?

(He tries to ignore the fact that he has told himself many times that he would rather die than fall back into those doctors’ hands, and opens his eyes, trying to gauge his surroundings.)

It’s pitch black, but he recognizes the feel of the chair on his legs and back, and so realizes that he must be returned to his cell. He’s in his straightjacket, but the muzzle is gone; that’s fortunate, he supposes, because the nausea he’s always come to expect with these surgeries is back in full force, and right now, he is pouring all of his effort into not being sick all over his lap.

He tries desperately to remember Rindt’s words, just before he was knocked out—because these surgeries usually put him out for several days, but didn’t—didn’t he say Lockon would get meals for free, for longer? He’s surely—still safe, perhaps still getting extra meals for telling Rindt something he actually wanted to know.

(Allelujah can’t begrudge his friend that, when he has looked so horrible for so long; he will gladly endure as many surgeries as they want, if it keeps Lockon alive.)

He thinks Lockon must still be reaping the benefits of this last piece of information and so holds onto that hope, even as he eventually loses the battle with his roiling stomach, retching mostly stomach bile onto his thighs. He is hungry, but not so much as he has been these past months—but he is still reluctant to lose whatever fluids they have deigned to give him to sustain him through the surgery.

Hopefully, it will not be too long before he is allowed another meal.

He sleeps, he thinks, for a while, and when he wakes he feels marginally better. His head still pounds, and there’s a strange ringing in his ears that he recognizes from his childhood, but this is not unbearable; the nausea is mostly gone, and he works his jaw, runs his tongue over his filthy teeth—relishing in the fact that they have not yet reapplied the muzzle to his face.

He sleeps often, but he thinks no more than a day or two could have passed; his stomach rumbles at him constantly, but he is not lightheaded—and so he is not yet worried that Rindt has not come in to ask for more information. Surely, Lockon is still being fed; surely, they would not kill him and risk not learning anything more—?

He does not know how much time has passed when Rindt finally returns to his cell, when he flips the light switch that makes Allelujah’s eyes burn, when he stands before his chair with that smug smile on his face, waiting for that next piece of information. He’s—he’s been thinking, and has decided that Wang Liu Mei can handle herself—and if she wants to shout at him, if he ever leaves this hell, then he will defend himself without guilt. Lockon, after all, is more important to Allelujah than that woman will ever be, and—

“You’ve been asleep for quite a while, Allelujah,” Rindt says, his smile growing nastier, and he tries not to let the fear show on his face. “Too long, I’d say.”

That—isn’t right. Of all the surgeries he had as a child, he was never knocked out for a week, even for the most punishing ones. He says nothing to this man, works to keep his face neutral, and only prays that Lockon is all right. But Rindt does not ask him for information; he does not ask him to give up his friends’ or his own secrets. He only stares down at him, his smile growing wider and only more cruel, before he raises his hand sharply. Allelujah does his best not to flinch, expecting a slap across the face—but the pain does not come, and another guard walks into the cell, then, something bulky slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“It’s been nearly two weeks since Lockon gave us that information,” Rindt says, amusement all over his voice as Allelujah’s face goes white. “Unfortunately, our agreement was for a week of food, and—well…” he laughs, leaning down, inches from Allelujah’s nose. “Neil Dylandy is no super soldier.”

The guard steps forward, then, as Rindt retreats; his face is stony as Allelujah stares up at him with wide eyes. The lighting is dim but not impossible, and he thinks the package he carries looks too much like—

He drops it, then, inches from Allelujah’s toes, and he looks down despite himself, despite the fact that he knows what it must be—

Lockon’s singular eye stares up at him, glassy and unseeing, and Allelujah cannot bite back the horrified noise that rises up his throat.

Rindt laughs, stepping around Lockon’s body like it’s a pile of dirt, like it’s unworthy of his notice when the man who once inhabited it was—“We’ll leave you two alone,” he says, as if sympathetic, but Allelujah would strangle this man with his bare hands if he could, because—because—“I know how close the two of you were, after all.”

He leaves with his guards, then, and does not turn off the light; Allelujah cannot tear his gaze from Lockon’s, because in this light—seeing his friend in person for the first time in over six months—he realizes exactly how awful he looks. His cheeks are gaunt, and his limbs have all but wasted away to skin and bones; his missing eye is still faintly oozing, in death, and he cannot imagine the pain it must have caused Lockon in life—

His hair is long and stringy and his face is twisted in rage and fear, and though Allelujah knows he is dead, knows that they would not bring his friend to his cell if there was any doubt, he cannot help but call for him, in a raspy voice that has not spoken in weeks.

“Lockon,” he tries, quietly, and is sure Rindt and his men are laughing at him on the other side of some security camera. His friend does not respond (and he realizes that he will not—not ever again) but Allelujah cannot help but keep trying. He tries to reach his feet forward enough to nudge his friend, tries to lean forward enough to catch his blank gaze, but he never—Lockon is—

The tears are sudden and unwelcome, for he knows the military will only use them to its advantage—but he can’t help them, when one of his dearest friends is dead inches from him, when he was too weak and too late to do anything to save him—when _Lockon is dead because of him_ and how is he ever going to forgive himself; how is he going to continue living, knowing he is the reason Lockon Stratos is dead?

The tears are falling fast down his face—and when the desperate scream tears up his throat in this too-empty, too-quiet tomb of a cell, he does not even attempt to stop it.


	2. of the mind;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, forgot to post this concurrently with FFN - but here's the second chapter now!

Lyle has been on this ship for precious few weeks—he barely knows his way down the hallways, let alone around the controls of Cherudim. But when he gets a message (desperate in tone even through the cold words on his terminal) to meet in the main briefing room on the Ptolemaios, he does not hesitate to comply.

He knows enough about Feldt to realize that she is not one to exaggerate—and something she considers _critically relevant information_ to their cause must be important indeed.

He makes his way there with only two wrong turns, and follows Mileina the last couple of hallways to the large room. Tieria and Setsuna are already there, their faces pale and set as they lean against a wall, waiting for the rest of the crew to show up. Sumeragi, he knows, has scarcely left her cabin since the three of them arrived, but even she is here (even if she looks like hell), staring at Feldt with wide eyes—and Lyle wonders suddenly whether the rest of them already know more about this than he does.

(It rankles, that he’s not trusted with such _important_ information when they’re expecting him to pilot their Gundam—but he supposes he trusts them just about as much as they trust him. That’s something they’ll have to work out, in time—if they ever stop seeing his brother’s ghost in everything he does.)

Lasse and Ian hurry in, filling out the crew, and Feldt turns a pasty face to the screen on the wall, turning it on to reveal what looks like—the layout of a prison, complete with names of every prisoner held within. Lyle is impressed that she managed to gather such information—even if she says it was sent by someone named Wang Liu Mei—and is just about to ask what the relevance is when she highlights two names on the schematic.

One name—Allelujah Haptism—he recognizes from overheard conversations in the halls, and he knows this man is Arios’ missing Meister. But his eyes trail down to the lowest level, then, to see this other name, and he feels all the breath leaving his lungs as he reads—

 _Neil Dylandy—_ and the room has similarly erupted around him, the others demanding to know how he survived the battle four years ago—how he was captured by the military when they were so sure he was dead. Setsuna’s and Tieria’s faces, especially, are white and horrified—and it’s only when Sumeragi calls for silence that everyone turns to her, murder in their eyes—ready to storm the prison with everything they have to rescue two friends they have long thought beyond their reach.

“Feldt, are you sure this information is accurate?” Sumeragi asks, but her voice wavers, too—and she can’t quite take her eyes from the screen.

“It’s directly from Wang Liu Mei,” Feldt says immediately, and Sumeragi nods, pushing off again toward the door.

“Lasse, set a course to orbit above the prison—I’ll send out a battle plan within the day.”

The room erupts into chatter behind her as she lets herself out, and Lyle does not doubt their sincerity to break his brother from that prison—but he finds he can do nothing but stare at the screen, at the name of the brother he has thought dead for almost ten years.

Neil joined Celestial Being when they were nineteen, after all, barely out of childhood—but Lyle had never heard from him after that, and had not been so surprised when Setsuna confirmed his brother’s death for him, weeks ago. He has mourned, though he’s sure Neil would be surprised to hear it; after all, there has been so much left unsaid between the two of them, their entire lives, and Lyle has long accepted that he will never be able to make peace with Neil.

He has accepted this for weeks and months and years but now he knows that Neil is _alive_ —and he has to grasp at a bar, behind him, to keep himself upright. He knows Neil is the one who belongs here, after all; it’s clear to anyone with half an eye that his brother was the one holding this crew together, and Lyle simply doesn’t care enough to do so. He knows he is a replacement, and that he is not so good as his brother might be behind the throttles of Cherudim, but he has accepted (though he is not happy about it) that he will simply have to live with Neil’s ghost haunting his every step on this ship, haunting the gaze of every person he comes into contact with in this organization.

He has accepted this but now he knows that Neil is _alive_ —and he’s not sure how to process this, that he will see his brother again after so many years—that he may see his brother in a matter of _days_. He can hear the others chattering excitedly around him, can even see some of their gazes wander in concern toward him, but his head is full of white noise and his ears are ringing and his limbs feel all but numb as he pushes out of the conference room; he _cannot believe_ that his brother is alive, after all these years, and he finds himself running through everything he will tell Neil, when they are reunited—everything he will try to make right, belatedly, between them.

He may not have liked Neil much, when they were teenagers, but _Neil is alive_ when they were all so sure he was dead, and he cannot feel anything but elation and overwhelming relief at this fact.

He locks himself in his room, stares at the wall, and ignores Haro’s excited chatter as he waits for his terminal to ping with a battle plan from Sumeragi—and he can only hope that their mission will be successful.

.

.

Allelujah’s head is spinning, and the throttles of Arios tremble beneath his shaking fingers, because he is _alive_ and he is _free_ after so long in this accursed prison. Setsuna had broken into his cell, and given him his freedom and his new Gundam—and now he is seeing sunlight for the first time in four years and it _blinds_ him in its brilliance, so much brighter than the single bulb that rarely illuminated his cell.

It has been four years but Celestial Being is _alive_ —he and Setsuna are fighting off enemy mobile suits (equipped with pseudo GN drives, but Ian has put in beautiful work, and Allelujah finds he has no trouble shooting them down) while a sniping mech operates from a distance. His heart pangs at the sight of the Gundam Lockon should be piloting, but he cannot allow himself to think such thoughts in the midst of battle—and so he shoves the rage and grief down and away, only moving at Setsuna’s order to better guard the heavy artillery mech, still stationary on the ground.

It’s shooting mechanically but it’s not moving an inch, and Allelujah recognizes the work of a Haro when he sees it—but it _must_ be Tieria’s Gundam (for Setsuna had been in contact with him when he first burst into his cell), and he does not understand what Tieria could still be doing in that prison.

“Where is he?” he demands of Setsuna, glancing to the countdown in the corner of his screen—edging dangerously close to zero. He does not know what it means but realizes that Miss Sumeragi must know what she’s doing, and if they need to retreat within the next forty-five seconds and Tieria is not in his cockpit—

Setsuna looks to him strangely, at that, his brows furrowed even as he dodges steady fire. “He’s extracting Lockon.”

Allelujah flinches involuntarily, at that, and Setsuna yells a warning as he narrowly shoots down an enemy that had tried to take advantage of his moment of weakness. Allelujah swallows, tries to find the words to tell them that it’s useless, when an audio link appears on his screen, and Tieria’s sharp voice fills his ears—

“I’ve combed the entire floor—Lockon isn’t here. I’m going up a level—“

“Tieria,” he blurts, trying valiantly to keep his voice steady though he does not succeed—and Setsuna glances to him in concern as he tries to convince himself to continue. “Get back to your Gundam.”

“I’m not leaving Lockon,” Tieria snaps, and Allelujah can hear gunfire in the background; he’s clearly being shot at, and if another of his friends dies because of him—

“Lockon’s dead.”

Tieria’s inhales sharply, and Setsuna’s face drains—but the gunfire only increases in volume, and Tieria swears, his feet pounding harder on the concrete floor. “You’re sure?” he demands, though there’s a waver in his voice that Allelujah never would have expected from him, four years ago. But he knows they’re out of time, and knows he does not have the courage to explain—and so he only says a shaky _yes_ in reply. Setsuna’s face has gone strangely blank, and Tieria’s breathing only grows heavier—but then he says a sharp _roger_ before cutting the audio, and Allelujah knows he will make his way back to the battlefield.

The retreat beacon goes up moments later, and Allelujah hesitates before following Setsuna’s stony order to retreat—to not accept comm links from their sniping mech or the Ptolemy—that they will have to explain everything once they get to safety.

Allelujah tries to swallow the lump in his throat, tries to convince himself not to be sick, and does as he’s told.

.

.

Ian meets him in the hangar, all bright smiles and cheery greetings as Allelujah cannot quite meet his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Ian asks, his face falling a bit when he sees his trembling hands and his unsteady stance. “We’ve got Med Bay prepped for the both of you, just say the word—“

“I’m fine,” he’s able to choke out, still staring somewhere between Ian’s boots and his own as he fights to keep his voice steady. “I just…”

Ian hesitates but seems to take his silence for the shock of being freed, and eventually slings an arm around his shoulders, helping him down the scaffolding. “Sumeragi’ll want to see you,” he says, his chatter filling Allelujah’s head though he can barely attempt to decipher it, “but if you’d rather do that later—“

“No, I—I need to talk to her,” he says, hearing Setsuna fall into step nearby but unable to look his friend in the face. “Um, I need to talk to everyone.”

“All right,” Ian says, a frown in his voice as he turns briefly to share a look with Setsuna. “Well, the bridge is just where it’s always been—I’ll tell Tieria and Lyle to meet us there, too.”

Lyle? Allelujah does not recognize the name, but assumes vaguely that he may be the new pilot of Lockon’s Gundam. He tries to ignore the sinking pit in his stomach of what he’s going to have to tell the others—that Lockon is dead—that—

He can’t tell them it’s his fault. He can barely bring himself to _think_ such things, even more than three years on, and to admit it to the others—he—

He can’t do it. He is weak and he is a coward, and he cannot do this, and so he will have to lie to some of his closest friends about how and why Lockon was not rescued alongside him.

The bridge is all smiles as the door slides open before them—there is an unfamiliar girl in Chris’ seat, and Lichty’s is disturbingly empty, but Feldt and Lasse and Miss Sumeragi jump to greet him in a way that turns Allelujah’s stomach. He takes an involuntary step back, feeling his eyes widen as his hands tremble even more, and Miss Sumeragi stops, a few feet from him, her brows furrowing in concern.

“Are you all right?” she asks after a moment, and even the younger girl turns in worry at that, frowning deeply down at him from her terminal.

“Um,” he says, and has to take a few more breaths before he’s able to continue. But Setsuna is standing stiff and stoic beside him, and Ian’s arm about his shoulders is all but holding him upright, and he knows his friends deserve to know the truth.

He opens his mouth to continue, but there is noise to his right, and he turns on instinct, his reflexes still heightened from the battle. Tieria is there, hurrying down the hall, fury on his face as he stares at Allelujah, and behind him is—

He feels the color drain from his face all at once, because it’s _Lockon_ behind Tieria. He’s in a green normal suit, but it’s his friend—it’s the friend whose dead body sat and rotted in his cell for days before the guards finally hauled him out—and he feels his knees buckle beneath him as he can only stare because—because—

“Where’s my brother?” Lockon demands, death promised on every inch of his face as he stares directly at Allelujah, and he can’t find the words to say anything in reply, because it’s _Lockon_ but _Lockon is dead_ and—

“This is Lockon’s brother,” Tieria explains, his voice harsh as he arrives at Allelujah’s side, crossing his arms as he glares up at him. And this is as good an explanation as he’s going to get, because now that Tieria has arrived, the rest of the crew is realizing that Lockon is not with him. Feldt’s face has gone worryingly pale, and Miss Sumeragi is staring between Tieria and Allelujah as if trying to glean the truth; Allelujah knows—knows that he cannot do this, but he _must_ , because they do not understand, and—

“Lockon was killed,” he’s able to rasp out, very quietly, to the ground in front of Miss Sumeragi’s feet. “Six months after—after Fallen Angels.”

They’re silent for several moments, at that, and Allelujah finds himself only staring at his feet, balling his hands into fists, praying his suddenly weak legs will not betray him. He is a coward and so he cannot bring himself to look any of them in the eye, but Ian’s grip has tightened considerably on his shoulders, and Lockon’s brother’s breathing is heavy and measured a little too closely; nobody moves for several seconds, until he sees a flash of pink in his peripherals—and then Feldt is shoving past him and Ian and Setsuna, running down the hall.

Allelujah can hear the sobs she’s trying to stifle as she disappears around the corner, and he has never felt so disgusting in his entire life.

Lockon’s brother stomps away soon after, walking the opposite direction quickly, and as Allelujah glances his way, he can see his hands fisted and trembling at his sides. He gathers his courage and manages to glance up to Miss Sumeragi, whose face has gone strangely blank. She says nothing to him for a moment, her jaw clenching a few times before she squeezes her eyes shut.

“We’ll have to talk later.”

It sounds like a condemnation, like she already knows it’s his fault Lockon is dead—and Allelujah does his best not to flinch as he nods hesitantly. After all, he knows she’ll need to be made aware of all the information they gave up during those six months—all the secrets they spilled. They were in vain, because _Lockon is dead_ and he knows the rest of them will never forgive him for surviving when their friend did not, but if he’s kicked off the Ptolemy for failing as a Gundam Meister, he needs to at least make sure they know what they’re up against.

Ian leads him gently by the shoulder away from the bridge, away from the prying eyes of those who considered Lockon their family, and though he is talking to him, Allelujah cannot find it in him to listen. Eventually, they stop before a nondescript door, and Ian shakes him a bit, saying that this is his cabin—that if he needs anything at all, to let them know.

“Allelujah,” he says, and his voice is rough—he forces himself to look up to the older man as Ian continues, “I’m very glad you’re back.”

He seems sincere, but Allelujah is sure he—and the rest of the crew—would rather have Lockon than him. Lockon, after all, was the older brother to much of the others—and he, Allelujah, was only the occasionally kind Meister who talked to himself. He is their friend but he is not their _family_ like Lockon was, and he only nods a bit jerkily to Ian, extracting himself from his grip and letting himself into his new cabin, locking the door behind him.

He should revel in the fact that he has pristine new clothes in the closet; he should be happy that he again has a bed to sleep on. But he does not notice either of these things; he does not make it far into the room at all. He collapses to the floor only a few feet from the door and instinctively curls up on himself, grasping at his unevenly shaved hair and trying to get a hold of his grief.

He has mourned Lockon for three and a half years—he has thought he’s had a handle on it, at least well enough to function. But he was so wrong, because he is here and freed when Lockon is yet rotting in the bowels of that awful prison, and it should be the other way around. _Lockon is dead because of him_ and—and—

His mind is full of the sight of Lockon’s dead body in his cell, and his hands will not stop shaking no matter how hard he tries, and the tears will not stop falling though he knows he should not be allowed this grief when _he is the reason_ —

He does not leave his cabin the rest of the day though his stomach growls at him and more than one person knocks on his door, asking after his well-being—and it is long hours before he finally falls asleep, curled up on the floor, unable to slow his tears.

.

.

He is woken by Lockon’s sharp voice, and in his sleep-induced haze he wonders whether he’s finally dead.

He snaps his eyes open and sees this unfamiliar cabin with its pristine walls and its sharply made bed and takes several seconds to recognize it—and several seconds longer to realize that someone is knocking harshly on his door, demanding to be let in.

It’s Lockon but it’s _not—_ it’s the man who looks just like his friend, and Allelujah knows he cannot face Lockon’s double. But at the same time, this man—above maybe everyone—deserves to know the truth, and so he picks himself up off the ground, tries to ignore his aching wrists and the crick in his neck, and reaches to unlock the door.

Lockon’s brother stands there, one fist raised to knock again, but pauses as the door opens. They’re roughly the same height, but Allelujah still cannot bring himself to meet his eyes (and this man has two eyes when Lockon did not, which sends another wave of grief through his gut), and the other man is the one to break the silence, his voice ruined and angry.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay,” he says, and his voice comes out as scarcely more than a whisper. He steps aside to allow this man entrance, and goes to sit gingerly on the bed—staining the white sheets with the grime of his prison jumpsuit—as Lockon’s brother sits in the desk chair.

“I’m Lyle,” he says stiffly after several moments, leaning forward a bit and staring hard at Allelujah though he still cannot bring himself to raise his gaze. “Neil was my twin brother.”

Allelujah nods slightly; it’s good to have a name to go with this man, to try and separate him from Lockon, beyond all the physical differences. He’s not sure what Lyle wants him to say in response, but he continues, “The others said you’re Allelujah?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly—an easy enough question, he’s sure, to be followed by much more difficult ones.

Lyle can obviously sense his hesitation, see the dread permeating every inch of his body, but he is Lockon’s brother and he deserves to know. They both know this, and so he plows on—“What happened to my brother?”

Of course he’ll go for the most direct question—the _worst_ question, the one Allelujah has been trying to avoid, even in his own mind. He can feel Lyle’s gaze boring into the top of his head, can all but hear his demands to know the truth, and he—he can’t—

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, his voice broken and barely understandable, and Lyle’s breathing speeds up a bit. “If I hadn’t been so—“

He can’t finish, reaches up to wipe at his face with both hands, because—because _it’s his fault Lockon is dead,_ and this man has every right to hate him for it, but he can’t bear to—

“What did you do?” Lyle asks, his voice low and dangerous, and Allelujah tries to steel his features, tries to get his breathing under control, because he knows he is dangerously close to losing control, and even with Hallelujah gone—

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, more quietly still, and Lyle stands abruptly; he can feel the rage pouring off of the other man, and Allelujah instinctively cowers back.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks again, and then Lyle is gone.

.

.

He’s half sure that Lockon’s brother will have told the whole crew—that Miss Sumeragi will dump him off at the nearest town, or, if that’s too kind, simply throw him out an airlock once they’ve returned to space. But when he eventually emerges the next day—during off-hours, hoping to miss the others—to find some food in the mess hall, he runs into Setsuna and Tieria, sitting together at a table and discussing something quietly.

He feels his eyes widen as he considers escaping, coming in at a later time—but Tieria turned when the door hissed open, and he gestures for Allelujah to come sit with them. He hesitates, searching both their faces, trying to sense some ulterior motive—but Setsuna sighs, waving him over, and says, “You haven’t eaten since you arrived. You need something in your system.”

It’s kind—or, at least as kind as Setsuna could ever be—and Allelujah eventually decides it’s worth the risk as his stomach growls loudly. He walks slowly toward the opposite side of the small mess hall where the meals are kept and grabs one at random, sure that whatever it is, it will be better than the mush he ate in prison. He hesitates before sitting beside Setsuna, putting a couple of feet of space between them. After all, even if Lyle hasn’t told the rest of them what he’s done, it’s only a matter of time—and Allelujah still cannot bear the guilt.

“Are you all right?” Tieria asks, at length, staring hard at Allelujah like he could glean the answer from his face.

“I’m fine,” he says on reflex, because he does not deserve their sympathy or their help. “Just need to clean up.”

Tieria raises an eyebrow, glancing down to the prison jumpsuit he still wears, before looking back up to his unevenly chopped hair. “There are uniforms in your cabin,” he says, without the accusation Allelujah has come to expect of him, and he nods slowly.

“I’ll—I’ll wear it after I shower.”

Tieria hesitates before nodding, but both he and Setsuna look utterly unconvinced as they continue to stare at him. “Nobody blames you,” Setsuna says, suddenly, and Allelujah looks over sharply. “We’re very glad to have you back.”

He swallows thickly, can’t meet either of their eyes, and finishes his meal in silence.

.

.

Lyle seems to be actively avoiding him, as he slowly spends more time around the Ptolemy.

Tieria and Miss Sumeragi both frown, one day, when Allelujah emerges for lunch during normal hours and Lyle abruptly leaves the mess hall at the sight of him. Tieria leaves his plate of food behind, standing up quickly with anger on his face as he follows Lyle out—and Allelujah tries to swallow his dread as he realizes that Tieria will not rest until he gets the truth.

He knows that, within half an hour, Tieria will hate him as well.

Miss Sumeragi sits with him in solidarity until he’s finished his meal, though she has been done for several minutes; when he eventually stands up, she follows, asking whether he has time to talk. Allelujah swallows, knows she needs to know the truth, and nods.

She’s clearly concerned as she leads the way to her own quarters. Allelujah doesn’t know whether she wants to meet there to ensure privacy, or to ensure easy access to alcohol (likely both), but he keeps his head down as he follows her, hoping she will at least make this quick—even if painless is no longer an option.

There’s someone else in the hall, and he looks up just quickly enough to see a flash of purple—Tieria is stomping in the opposite direction down the hall, and Allelujah reads murder all over his face as he stops short at the sight of them. His eyes widen and his jaw clenches in fury as he stares at Allelujah for several moments, and he cannot bring himself to meet his fellow Meister’s gaze—and it’s only when Sumeragi asks sharply whether there’s a problem that Tieria shakes his head, only walking into his cabin and slamming the door shut.

Sumeragi frowns after him as Allelujah keeps his head down, but eventually opens her own door, nearby, allowing him entrance.

It looks similar enough to her room on the first Ptolemy, with empty alcohol bottles scattered everywhere and mobile suit statistics all over the screens covering the opposite wall. Miss Sumeragi goes straight to a locked cabinet, pulling out a fresh bottle of whiskey and pouring two generous tumblers’ worth, handing one to him before seating herself on her bed, gesturing for her desk chair.

“Drink up,” she says, more gently than Allelujah has thought possible of her, and he obliges, finishing the entire glass in two gulps and wishing it could take the edge off his guilt.

“What do you want to know?” he asks eventually, his voice hoarse as he still cannot bring himself to meet her eyes. Sumeragi looks him up and down, her gaze lingering in confusion on the mess his hair is in, before inhaling long and slow.

“What happened in that prison, Allelujah?”

He blinks, unsure of how to answer—after all, what _didn’t_ happen? “You’re going to have to be more specific than that,” he says, without even the barest trace of humor, and Miss Sumeragi flinches as she reconsiders her question.

“Do you know how Lockon survived the battle?” she asks eventually, slowly, knowing it will be painful—and though Allelujah appreciates that she’s attempting to soften the blow, appreciates that she still does not suspect any wrongdoing on his part, he knows it will only make it worse when he ultimately has to tell her.

“They just said they recovered him,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “They barely healed him, he…”

He swallows, remembers the sickening way Lockon’s limbs were limp and dead in every video he ever saw of his friend—remembers the way his missing eye festered and rotted at his feet for days, and cannot continue.

“Allelujah,” she prods carefully, and he shakes his head again, clenching his eyes shut for a moment.

“He—in the blast, he…he broke his neck. And they didn’t fix that, or his eye.”

She stares for a moment, the color draining from her face—and then she swears sharply, rubbing at her face vigorously for a moment.

“So that’s why he died?”

Allelujah grimaces, wishes he could tell her this—it makes sense, after all, with the disgusting conditions the two of them were left in—but telling her anything but the truth would be unbearable. “No,” he says after a moment, sees Miss Sumeragi’s face contort in confusion as he struggles to continue. He—he needs to tell her, why Lyle and Tieria hate him (why he hates himself), but she—she will not understand unless he explains everything, and he’s not sure he’s ready to do that.

Miss Sumeragi sees the look on his face and wordlessly passes him the whiskey bottle—he fills his glass to the brim, and drinks the burning alcohol halfway down before he even thinks about continuing. “You should know,” he says quietly, because even if they will throw him from Celestial Being for it, they are his friends—and he does not want them flying blind when they have been so compromised. “We…gave up information. To the military.”

She blinks at him, clearly thrown by the change in subject, but she rallies quickly, leaning forward a bit, her brows furrowed. “How much information?” she asks, still without judgment in her tone—and Allelujah is amazed, that she has this much trust in him.

But he gave up a piece of information every other day for six months, and Lockon did so every five—and so he does not know the answer, except that it is—“A lot,” he says, more quietly still, and Miss Sumeragi frowns, considering him before grabbing a piece of paper and pen from the mess on her bedside table, passing it to him.

The request is obvious even though she says nothing, and Allelujah swallows quickly, draining the rest of his whiskey before settling in at the desk, starting to write.

 _Codenames and descriptions of Ptolemy crew,_ he starts with, because that had bought them a few weeks—and had been of little consequence, when they were both sure the rest were dead. _Lockon’s real name, history, and family. Four GN drives. The existence of other cells. Histories of everyone we knew them for. Veda’s existence and function…_

He writes for minutes, the pen scratching on the paper as he eventually has to flip the sheet over, despite his cramped handwriting. He does not remember every bit of information, but he thinks he remembers the important ones—and he glances over the sheet when he’s done (finished with _I’m a super soldier,_ and it still turns his stomach that this simple fact got Lockon killed) before handing it back to his commander, unable to look her in the eye.

It’s an inexcusable amount of information, he knows. Even Miss Sumeragi would not be able to forgive him for this—let alone Tieria, or anyone else in the crew. He has always been tasked with Celestial Being’s secrets, after all, and when he has broken so easily—given so much information to their enemies without much prodding at all—he knows it is unforgivable.

He knows it, but he was _so desperate_ to keep Lockon alive for just another two days. He was desperate but it didn’t even matter in the end because—because—

Miss Sumeragi finishes glancing over the list, flipping the list over again briefly before looking up to stare at Allelujah. “This is it?” she asks, and Allelujah can detect some incredulity in her voice…like she believes he’s holding back. He does his best not to hug himself about the middle, cannot bring himself to look up at her, and nods slightly.

“Allelujah—“ and he jerks at her voice, because it’s sharp, more incredulous still—and he chances a glance up to see her clearly distressed, crumpling the paper in one hand beside her. “This is—this is practically nothing! Whatever you and—Lockon needed to do to stay alive, I don’t blame you at all—“

Allelujah blinks as she continues, because—because she’s misunderstood. She thinks he and Lockon gave up this information to keep themselves alive, when—should his own life have been on the line—Allelujah would have died for their secrets in a second. But he was sending meals to Lockon; he was trying to keep their friend alive the only way he could, and Miss Sumeragi—she does not understand.

“No,” he says desperately, cuts her off, and her brows furrow deeper as she stares at him, waiting for him to explain. “I—we didn’t give up anything for ourselves, it was…”

She does not understand—he can see this all over her face—and he must explain, but the memories still bring bile threatening to rise up his throat, send his hands to shaking violently, and though he wants to pour himself another drink, he knows he will more than likely spill it all over the floor. “We were keeping each other alive,” he whispers to the empty room, and Miss Sumeragi only stares. “They—they offered meals for information, and…”

He cannot continue, clenches his teeth against the nausea in the way he’s gotten too good at, over the years, and still cannot look up at his commander. “Allelujah,” she says, and her voice is unsteady in horror. “What are you telling me?”

He swallows; she does not understand, cannot grasp the lengths to which the military would go to extract information from their captured terrorists, and he blinks several times before he says, “They’d—they’d come to me, every other day. And when I gave them information, they sent a meal down to Lockon. And…Lockon, he did the same—every five days.”

Sumeragi is silent for several seconds, the only sounds in the room the quiet whirring of the ship and the furious pounding of Allelujah’s heart. “They starved you,” she says, her voice low—and even though it isn’t a question, Allelujah nods hesitantly anyway. And when he glances up, he can see that her face is a pasty white and that her hands are trembling in her lap; but, he knows, she does not even realize that Lockon is dead because of him. This horror will only grow worse—likely, into hatred—and any sympathy she yet feels for him will be long gone.

“For six months?” she asks, her voice very quiet, and Allelujah nods jerkily. After—after Lockon died, they fed him more regularly, if only to keep him healthy enough to survive brain surgery. But until then…

He just finished eating not half an hour ago; he eats at least two filling meals on the Ptolemy daily. But the hunger pangs and the nausea still gnaw like phantoms on his stomach, and he remembers all too well constantly being pushed to his limits, desperately sucking down every drop of water because it would be nearly a week before he got more—

“But…” Sumeragi trails off, considering him, leaning forward more to try and catch his eye. “This doesn’t—explain how Lockon…”

She trails off, swallowing thickly, and pours herself a third tumbler before refilling Allelujah’s as well. He grasps at it with both hands, but they’re shaking beyond his control—and he eventually sits it upon the desk so as not to make a mess of her cabin. “It’s my fault,” he says, barely more than a whisper, and he can see Miss Sumeragi’s frown deepen as she stares at him. “I’m the reason he’s dead. That’s why Lyle and Tieria…”

“You wouldn’t just let him die,” she says, staunchly, and his chest flares as she stays so trusting of him, even after such a naked admission. “Allelujah—“

“It’s my fault he’s dead,” he says, a waver in his voice though he says it louder, this time. “If I hadn’t been so—so _weak,_ he’d still be alive, and—and I’m sure you’d all rather have him here than me, and—“

“No,” she says sharply, cutting him off, and he looks up in surprise. “Nobody on this ship is disappointed that you’re here. Of—course, we’d like to have Lockon here, as well, but—“

“He’s dead because of me,” he insists, not sure why she doesn’t understand, but she shakes her head.

“Were you the one who pulled the trigger?”

There’s a challenge in her tone, like she _does_ understand what he believes but will do her best to break him of it, and he does not know why. After all, if he hadn’t been—

“No,” he admits, “but I couldn’t—I didn’t send him meals for almost two weeks because I was…”

He trails off, the nausea growing again in his stomach as Miss Sumeragi only stares. “What happened to your hair, Allelujah?” she asks eventually, her tone gentler.

“Lockon ran out of useless information to tell them,” he says quietly. He does not blame his friend for this in the slightest; Lockon, surely, could not have foreseen quantum brainwave surgery as an outcome of telling the military such a piece of information. “So he told them I was a super soldier, and they…”

He hesitates, reaching up subconsciously to tug at a longer bit of hair. “They decided to continue their experiments.”

Miss Sumeragi is silent for several moments; Allelujah looks up to see her face whiter still, contorted in rage the likes of which he has never seen there before. “They put you through _brain surgery,_ ” she says, her voice surprisingly steady, “and then didn’t feed Lockon because you were too busy _recovering_ to give them information?”

He nods slowly, his gaze sliding back down to his feet, and Miss Sumeragi stands abruptly, her drink falling to shatter on the floor. “You’re dismissed,” she says harshly, stepping toward the door, and Allelujah looks up sharply, because though he doesn’t think she means she’s throwing him off the ship—“Go to the hangar, your cabin, wherever you want—just stay out of my way. I need to have a chat with Lyle.”

.

.

Lyle is yet trembling in fury, nearly a week on, from the fact that the man he risked his life to rescue is the reason his twin brother is dead.

 _Neil is dead_ , and his world has shattered around him for this simple fact; his cabin walls close in around him, more often than not, and his uniform fits all wrong; none of the others can even look him in the eye, anymore, with this fresh revelation, and—

Neil is dead and Lyle is left holding all the cards, because his brother was killed by one of his closest friends—and now he is expected to _work_ with that monster. He’s sure that the military—even the government, maybe—had something to do with Neil’s death. Even a lot, he’d wager, but Allelujah had told him point-blank that it is his fault that his brother is dead. He sold him out to save himself, or he—he refused to cooperate and got Neil killed, it doesn’t matter, because—

It doesn’t matter because all of the words he planned to say to Neil now die like ashes on his tongue and he can scarcely breathe on this ship his brother was supposed to call home, and _Neil is dead_ and—

There is a sharp knock on the door and he considers not answering; after all, he doesn’t think he can lie to any of them about what Allelujah told him, but he can see how fragile this crew is to begin with. He is angry—he is _furious,_ hates Allelujah Haptism with every fiber of his being—but he does not think he will do this to the others, ruin one of their closest friends for them.

Allelujah is a monster but he will keep this to himself unless someone asks him cold, like Tieria did not an hour ago. The man had come in, all full of righteous anger, asking what he thought he was doing, treating one of his fellow Meisters like shit when he’s gone through hell these past four years. Lyle had lost his temper, and had told Tieria what Allelujah told him—and the man’s pale face had grown even whiter, at that.

“You’re sure?” he had asked, his voice low—quite a difference from the yelling from moments before.

“He told me exactly that,” Lyle had said coldly, and Tieria’s face had contorted before he let himself out of the room.

Someone is knocking insistently at his door and he seriously considers not answering it—but they do not let up, and he sighs explosively, standing up from where he had been lying on his (Neil’s) bed, resigned to try and be half-civil with these people he has never wanted to work with.

Sumeragi is standing there, her hair all awry; one hand clutches a crumpled piece of paper, while the other is poised to knock again. He is ready to use all the civility he has left within him to say he doesn’t want to talk right now—but she looks up at him, the fury only rising on her face as she grabs hold of his arm with an iron grip, pulling him out into the hallway and walking toward what he thinks is Tieria’s cabin.

“Sumeragi,” he starts, angry—furious—because he thinks he knows what this is about, but she—she _has no idea_. But she only yanks on his arm harshly, saying nothing in reply as she bangs on Tieria’s door, waiting impatiently for him to answer.

“Sumeragi Lee Noriega,” Tieria says when the door opens, a scowl twisting his face as well as he cross his arms across his chest. “What is this about?”

“You both are going to sit down, shut up, and listen to me,” she says, her voice furious as she forces her way into Tieria’s room—and though Lyle still does not consider her his commander, he knows a tone that allows no argument when he hears one. Tieria, too, seems to sense that anything to the contrary would be unwise—and sits stiffly on his pristinely made bed beside Lyle, glaring at Sumeragi as she does not sit—only stands before the two of them and _glares._ “Have you told anyone else?”

“Figured I didn’t want to ruin anyone else’s day,” Lyle snaps, “because everyone seems to love him, and all.”

“First off,” she says for a moment, her face twisting as she glares between the two of them. “You should know that it is the _military’s_ fault that Lockon is dead, and that Allelujah already has a guilt complex a mile wide, and he endured three and a half years of nothing but _people who hated him_ convincing him that it was his fault Lockon died.”

Lyle’s scowl deepens even as he hesitates, because—he supposes—he has had no way of knowing these things about the man. But he had said that it was his fault—had said that if he did things differently—

“So what happened?” Tieria snaps, glaring up at his commander—clearly unconvinced.

Sumeragi swears under her breath, running a hand through her hair in frustration. “They were buying each other meals, as sparingly as they could to survive,” she says, her voice low in disgust, and Lyle feels his eyes widen as he realizes exactly what she means by this.

“With what?” Tieria demands, leaning forward, and Sumeragi all but throws the crumpled paper in her grasp at him.

He catches it, unwrinkling it as best he can and scowling as he begins to read the list. Lyle leans over as well, and sees a shaky, cramped scrawl filling the page (and the back, as he cranes around to check) with a list of—of—

“ _He gave up our secrets?_ ” Tieria hisses, fury rising anew on his face as he looks back up to Sumeragi, barely glancing over the front of the sheet. Lyle pulls it from his grasp, though, his brows furrowing as he looks more closely at the messy handwriting, because—

Because none of this sounds particularly important, to him. Even as he continues glancing down the list (and then to the back), he doubts any of this would truly compromise Celestial Being, even taken in aggregate—and—

“He and Lockon both gave up _unimportant_ secrets so the other would stay alive,” Sumeragi says sharply, and Lyle bites back the nasty _well why isn’t Neil here, then,_ as he gets to the end of the list. _I’m a super soldier,_ and he reads reluctance in the handwriting, and his brows furrow, because—the Super Human Institute was destroyed, wasn’t it? By—by Celestial Being, almost five years ago?

“Lockon ate every other day—Allelujah, every five,” Sumeragi continues, and Lyle’s stomach turns at the sudden thought of this happening for _six months_ —“until they put Allelujah under for _brain surgery,_ and decided feeding Lockon in the meantime wasn’t worth the effort.”

Lyle stares, even as Tieria swears viciously beside him; he wants to be sick, because—because _they starved his brother to death,_ and Neil died without a single friend at his side—

“Why would they give up their leverage?” Tieria demands, though the redness in his face has drained considerably as he snatches the sheet from Lyle’s grasp, looking over the list more thoroughly.

Sumeragi’s face darkens. “I think they probably realized they weren’t going to get anything important out of them—and Allelujah said they were more interested in continuing their quantum brainwave surgeries on a former subject.”

 _Surgeries_ —they—Lyle has to swallow, suddenly, against the nausea rising up his throat, because suddenly the irregular lengths of the man’s hair make too much sense, and—and—

“He came into my cabin waiting for me to kick him out because he was _so sure_ Lockon’s death is his fault,” Sumeragi says, nastily, “and I’m sure what I said to him hasn’t gotten through his thick skull. And you two—jumping to conclusions without thinking— _you’re not helping._ ”

Tieria actually looks ashamed, something Lyle never would have thought possible of him—and the horror still twisting his own insides is terrible enough that Lyle realizes she is right. He stands up, suddenly, stepping toward the door—ignoring Sumeragi’s sharp call as he enters the hallway, knocking immediately on Allelujah’s cabin door.

He can hear movement within, but the door does not slide open—and he sighs as he only continues knocking. “Allelujah,” he tries after a moment, hopes it won’t hurt his case, and the sounds quiet suddenly. “I need to talk to you.”

It’s just what he said, the last time he stood at this door, waiting to talk to the last friend his brother saw—but now, he hopes, his tone and face are not so intimidating. “Please,” he adds, his voice cracking—and it’s silent for several moments longer before the door eventually slides open, and Allelujah stands there. He’s still rail-thin, and his hair falls choppily on either side of his face—some of it buzzed, still, and some of it past his shoulders. He’s not looking at Lyle; he’s staring at the ground between their feet, clearly waiting for him to shout at him or shoot him in the head.

He looks like absolute _hell,_ though he has been on the Ptolemy for over a week—Lyle has never noticed this, before, too wrapped up in his own grief and rage, and he realizes all at once exactly how much of an idiot he has been.

“What?” Allelujah asks after several moments, his voice little more than a rasp, and though Lyle can smell the alcohol on his breath, he does not appear drunk at all. “Come to yell at me?”

“I’m here to apologize,” he says sharply, and regrets it immediately when Allelujah flinches back. “Sumeragi, she told me—what happened. That you kept Neil alive for six months.”

“I killed him,” Allelujah says, more quietly still, but Lyle isn’t having it.

“The military killed him,” he counters immediately, hesitating before reaching out a hand to the man’s shoulder. He flinches harshly at the contact, but Lyle does not let him pull away. “You—they were _operating on your brain,_ nobody could have expected you to—“

He chokes off, horrified at the thought of even his worst enemy going through what this man has—let alone one of Neil’s dearest friends. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says again, hoarsely, and Allelujah hesitates, chancing a glance up to his face.

“I’m sorry I was such an ass,” he continues, and doesn’t think he’s ever been so sincere about an apology in his life. Even if he only rarely hands them out, he doesn’t think anyone’s ever deserved one more. “If I can—if there’s anything I can do to—to make it up to you—“

Allelujah shakes his head, though, shrugging Lyle’s hand off his shoulder. “It’s fine,” he says, just as quiet as before, but Lyle thinks he hears a little less fear in his voice, now.

He opens his mouth, means to say something else to this man, but nothing comes out; after all, he has no idea of what he has been through with Neil—what horrors will haunt him for the rest of his life. He realizes that there is nothing else for him _to_ say, and so he steps back a bit, allowing Allelujah to turn him away if he so chooses.

He stares at Lyle for a moment, his mismatched eyes shot through with red and underlined by years’ worth of dark bags, before nodding slightly, closing the door.


End file.
